Reflections
by ducky72
Summary: Gibbs reflects on how Abby and he came to know each other. He also gives an explanation on why Abby prefers to work alone. Gabby. Gibbs' POV.
1. Chapter 1

_**Title:** Reflections_

_**Summary:** Gibbs reflects on how Abby and he came to know each other. He also gives an explanation on why Abby prefers to work alone._

_**Rating:** T or M, where ever this is leading and what ever you want it to be. Just let me know ;-)_

_**Beta:** doomprincess_

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters. Never had, never will. I hope no-one minds my borrowing them for some (pleasant and unpleasant) excursions. I promise I return them back safe and sound._

_**A/N:** At some point the story lacks plausibility, because I try to fit in Abby in Gibbs's already tight schedule in the late 90s. I however hope the discrepancies are not too obvious... _

_And since again they didn't mention Abby's birthday this season, I'm going to fit that in as well ;-)_

* * *

><p>"Night Gibbs!"<p>

It has been a long day for all of us. Abby is the last one of the team to leave - except for me. I look up from my paperwork. She smiles at me and waves good bye, a twinkle in her eyes. I smile back at her.

Whenever Abby smiles at me, or teases me, or looks at me with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes, I'm taken back to the secret corner in the back of my mind that reminds me of a time, before, when it hadn't been like this.

When Jenny hired that Chip-guy, as Abby's assistant, Abby took on the challenge that almost went terribly wrong. Again. I swear by God, I will never let that happen again.

And when Abby suggests that we smoke some of the stuff we collected at a crime-scene, to find out what sort of dope it is, then I know she does not feel comfortable at all with the situation, because it has some serious background to it. She does not want to let it show, though. I am sure she has not told the team about it, and if she has, she most likely has left out the part that involved me; because that would divulge the very personal details of our relationship.

It all began more than 10 years ago...

_**-x**__**xx-**_

When I first meet Abigail Sciuto, she is anything but the lively, smart young woman who has only just finished her exams in criminology, sociology and psychology. She is working at this forensics lab with this guy, who…

But first things first:

In 1998 my job as an NCIS-Agent is taking me to New York, to interview some relatives of a murdered Marine Petty Officer.

The night before I leave to head back to D.C., I find myself sitting on a bench in a park, in the middle of the night, after discovering again that the couple of glasses of bourbon I had do not make me tired. They never do.

A few yards away from me, three people walk by; two guys supporting a young woman. She is tall - or maybe that's because of the high platform shoes she is wearing - and dressed in a shirt and a knee-long skirt. And Jeez! Is she drunk!

They do not notice me and I consider following them because of this uneasy feeling this picture evokes in my gut.

A minute or two later, I hear noises, shouting, harsh words and a female voice - though choked and inarticulate - that leaves no doubt she is not approving of what is going on.

I jump up, and within seconds I reach the spot where the shouting comes from. They have pinned the girl against a tree, shouting and laughing.

"Hey!" I shout, but they are so absorbed in their vicious game, that despite my shouting they do not notice me until I grab the guy who is about to rape her. I land a punch in his face; but unfortunately it is not hard enough, so that he can flee, as well as does his buddy bastard.

I turn my attention towards the woman who is still leaning against the tree. She is in a state of shock, swaying a little. But as I turn toward and touch her, she starts fighting me, tooth and nail, lashing about with unexpected force.

_She'__s not drunk_, it crosses my mind, _but drugged to the limit_. I am mad at myself that I had not realized it before.

I take numerous bruises and scratches, and then all of a sudden she collapses.

I hold her while I search for my cell and call 911. There is no-one around to do it. Or maybe no-one wants to be around.

I have no idea where exactly we are, but the lady on the other end of the line tells me they got the signal from my cell phone and the EMTs are on their way.

The young woman's head in my lap, I keep sitting on the ground, holding her hand, kneading her shoulders and telling her that she is going to be okay. She moans, writhes, gasps for air and throws up twice before the EMTs arrive; a trembling heap of exhaustion.

**_Tbc..._**


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N:__ Thanks all for your reviews and messages. It's been more than a month again already and I'm very sorry things are going so slowly. My computer crashed and __I__' have to get used to these new versions of text processing programs. The next couple of chapters won't take that long. In fact there is only one chapter left that needs to be typed._

_Anyways, here's the next installment. Enjoy._

* * *

><p><strong><span>II.<span>**

She is about to panic again when one of the EMTs crouches down beside her, checking her pulse. Her eyes grow wide with fear, and I can feel her tense up inside, but right now she is too weak to fight anything or anyone.

I insist on staying with her, my badge being extremely helpful.

They take us - her ID card reveals her name is Abigail Sciuto - to a nearby hospital and while they examine her, I call the Director to let him know I witnessed an attack and therefore have to stay in New York for another couple of days.

Hours later, in the early evening and more than 12 hours after we got to the hospital, Abby slowly comes awake; moaning. She doesn't manage to open her eyes for a while and when she finally does, she looks confused. When she spots me, her eyes move about wildly, as if she is trying to remember what has happened. She then sighs heavily, as her eyes flutter shut again.

As soon as we had reached the hospital, they had drawn blood samples, which revealed a considerable list of drugs [and when they told me I sincerely hoped she hadn't taken any of them on her own]. It seemed that the guys had even tried or even managed to inject some sort of this infernal stuff.

With this horrible mixture running through her system, the poor young woman has to feel terribly sick, with her whole body hurting badly. She comes around a couple of times during the night, but she never is really responsive.

She isn't the next day either. When she is awake she's either staring at the wall, or sometimes at me, but most of the time she is drowsy and asleep.

The police's visit is a short one. The physician has informed them about the attack, but since Abby's only reaction is to turn her face away, refusing to talk, they call it settled because they have no other leads to follow and so they drop it.

I know it's not my job to question her about the attack, but I tell her she has to press charges against the perps.

She doesn't even look at me.

A weird thought arises in my mind, caused by her constant inactivity and unresponsiveness: _What if she doesn't understand?_

I take my chair, sit down beside the bed and – when she finally looks at me - start to sign. Slowly, with unsure hands I attempt to communicate. I haven't done this in some time and I have always been clumsy at it.

_How are you feeling?_

Abby tilts her head. The expression on her face gets soft and after she has eyeballed me for long moments, her hands slowly move through the air.

_Sick,_ she signs. _Very sick._

Boy, this is going to be hard. Sign language. My first wife, Shannon, taught me how to sign. She had good friends who were deaf.

_Want me to call a doctor?_

_No. Some more sleep and __I__ will be fine again._

Having 'said' this, Abby stares at me with a somewhat amused smile.

_What?_ I ask.

_You know you look cute when you sign? Less grim._

I sigh, sinking back in my chair.

"Yeah." Like I said, I've always been clumsy at signing, but that's exactly the words Shannon had used. '_You know you look cute when you sign?'_ Thinking of her right now hurts more than anything else, and a wave of sadness hits me.

Taking a deep breath, I immediately try to mask it, but it's too late.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to embarrass you."

If I had let my sadness shown, I certainly didn't intend to, but now the expression on my face has clearly changed to astonishment.

"What?" she asks curiously.

She sounds innocent, but I'm too much taken by surprise to hear her talk that I cannot answer her right away.

"I'm sorry that I was so ... mute," she says.

"Why?"

She shrugs; and I proceed to make this damn Probie-mistake.

"Abigail, do you know the guys who did this to you?"

End of conversation.

* * *

><p><em>Tbc…<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I promised it wouldn't be that long this time... :-)_

* * *

><p><strong><span>III.<span>**

I decide it's better to leave her alone, so I return to my hotel, take a shower and lie down on the bed.

Sleep? Look! You know me. How do I sleep in a situation like this?

So I walk around the town for hours until - whether by intention or not - I find myself sitting down on a bench in the same park out of the thousands of parks in New York City and right vis-à-vis of where Abby had been attacked.

At sunset I eventually get up. I have to talk to Abby again, but that's easier said than done. When I arrive at the hospital, they tell me that Miss Sciuto had insisted on leaving late on Sunday evening.

Sitting in my car, I start thinking. Her address? Her ID-card! I eventually do remember her address on her ID-card.

I park my car a few yards from her apartment and while I consider coming back later - because it's rather early in the morning - a tall and slender figure slips out of the house, crosses the street and drives off in a car.

I blink. Abigail Sciuto is driving a hearse!

I follow her. Whether it's because of my background as an agent or because I have become inexplicably protective of this young woman, I can't tell. It certainly is not what you might be thinking right now; I have not fallen in love with her. She's not my type and she's too young.

We arrive at what turns out to be the New York FBI building and I utter an impressed "Wow" when she heads for and parks her car in the staff lot. I wonder what sort of employment she has here, trying to imagine her as agent, secretary, archival employee; and so I wait for about half an hour until I follow her.

I tell the receptionist lady that I am an NCIS agent and need to see Miss Abigail Sciuto. A couple of minutes later I am shown to the basement - the laboratory wing.

"Agent, huh?" Abby is not thrilled about it. "I'm sorry, I still can't tell you anything."

"I'm with the NCIS, Abby. I'm not investigating your case."

"There is no _case_. _N_CIS?"

"Naval...," I explain.

"Right. I've heard this before," she interrupts. "Well, Agent Gibbs, this doesn't change anything. I can't..."

"You _can't_? You don't _want_ to," I break in on her likewise. "And I wish I knew why."

But I already have a suspicion. I can't take my eyes from the lab assistant at one of the desks who had been talking to Abby while I was waiting for her. Something about him looked strange, right from the beginning.

"Is he threatening you?" I ask, nodding my head in the guy's direction.

"No." Her shaking her head, without even turning around to see who I'm talking about, is telling me all I need to know.

I cock my head, squinting. _You don't say!_ "Why?"

Abby is pinching her lips. She refuses to talk, but at the same time something is keeping her from simply turning around and walking away. While I still think about how to continue from here, her suspicious co-worker puts on an impatient or rather nervous look and steps out of the lab.

"Hey Sciuto, you coming?" he asks.

"No, she's not," I tell him without taking my eyes from Abby.

"I gotta go back to work," she says, but her hands tell another story. At first it looks as if she points backwards to the lab, but the gesture is strangely jerky, and her other fist-like hand jerks in front of her body. It takes me a moment to process it. _Threat, _she confirms.

A second later I have nailed the bastard against a wall.

_**-x-**_

I continue to massage Abby's shoulders, even after they have hauled him off. Dave is, or rather was the lab supervisor and he had threatened to make sure she'd be fired and never get an employment again.

He and a guy working at the evidence vault had indulged in an unusual and very dangerous leisure activity. They abstracted the smallest portions of all sorts of confiscated drugs, testing various combinations on unknowing attractive girls. In the end they would often administer a sedative drug and rape their victims.

_**-x-**_

The New York Agency's Assistant Director tells Abby to take the rest of the day off. She wants to refuse at first, saying the best way to get over this is to resume work immediately.

"Tomorrow," she gets as an answer. Then he looks at me. "You mind staying a couple days, Agent Gibbs? We could use the help of an NCIS Agent with a case."

"You ask my boss in D.C." I shrug.

"Will do," he says. "Expect you back tomorrow morning. Miss Sciuto, you'll be working on that case, too."

I take Abby home, and she asks me to come in and stay for a coffee. She's still scared, so I take the offer. The coffee is not quite the fast seller and since it is past noon already, I take her out for lunch.

When I take her home again a few hours later, Abby is a bit tipsy.

"You know, Gibbs, if it had just been for the sex, they simply could have asked. Would have been more fun for them. And me," she grins.

"They could have asked?" I wonder, squinting, not believing what I just heard.

"Yeah, sure. If you asked me right now, I wouldn't mind either. It's just sex."

"Just sex?" I have to admit, I hadn't expected her to see it that way.

"Oh c'mon Gibbs," she slurs. "You are not that innocent either." She grins wickedly and I try to cover an embarrassed blushing by kissing her cheek.

"See you tomorrow, Abby."

_**-x-**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Tbc...<br>**_


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

_**-x-**_

When I see Abby the next day, it's not in the lab, but I am still at her apartment.

"You mind staying with me? Today? Tonight? I mean, just staying, nothing else. I'm still a bit afraid," she told me when I was about to leave. So I stayed. And _only_ stayed. In the morning I leave for my hotel to change and have a shower and we meet at the lab again.

Abby has already started to see through the evidences of the case they want my help with, and there's a stack of files waiting for me. We work by ourselves for most of the day. When in the afternoon Abby presents her first results, I see a completely different Abby. Self-confident and very professional.

She talks fast. Full stops do not seem to belong to her active vocabulary.

I however try to follow her elaborations. Yet, I don't understand half of what she is talking about, but she is good. Very good. Convincing.

When she has finished, she looks at my blank face and knows, "You didn't understand it."

It's not a question and I don't hide how lost I am.

"Nope." Pinching my lips I look her in the eye and she tries to find out, by looking in mine, squinting, where exactly I lost her. I never thought it possible, but she accomplishes the task better than I would have been able to myself.

"Okay." She starts anew, this time way more understandable.

She's amused. And so am I.

"Feeling better?" I ask when we are finished discussing our findings.

She nods. "Thanks," she smiles.

It takes three more days to run a few more tests and solve the case.

_**-x-**_

Abby and I get along great. I don't know what it is that makes talking with her so easy. Besides, I feel a little responsible for her, protective even. I want to make sure she is okay.

"Take care, Abby," I tell her when I am leaving for D.C..

She hugs me and promises to call whenever she needs help. Forensics-wise she offers to help whenever I get stuck with a case. So even when I come back to D.C., I continue to ask Abby for advice on forensic stuff.

In between my various missions to Europe and Russia, it must have been quite a number of times and considerable outcome, because when our lab-tech leaves only a few weeks after I returned to D.C., the Director sends me to ask Abby if she is interested in working at NCIS headquarters.

He instructs me to take Abby out to wherever she wants to go to for dinner when I offer her the job, which eventually turns out to be just around the corner of the hotel I am staying at.

Abby likes the idea of working at NCIS, and even more does she like the appeal of a fully equipped lab of her own. Most lab-techs at our location do work alone or in pairs. Abby still feels uneasy working with a dozen others in one big lab.

"It's so draining to keep my eyes on everything everyone is doing," she tells me.

"All you have to do is send in a formal application. 'To keep up appearances'," I tell her.

"I really do get my own lab?"

"Yeah."

"Computer?"

"Yeah," I shrug. I don't feel comfortable with these things and I cannot understand how one could be so eager using them.

"My own machines? Whatever I need?" She is getting more and more excited.

"Mm-hm." It's more like a humming, because from what I understand this equipment can be very expensive and I'm not sure NCIS pays for all of it easily.

"And my own CafPow! dispenser?"

"Your what?" I ask, not knowing what she's talking about.

"CafPow! dispenser. It's a highly caffeinated drink. I need a lot of caffeine."

I remember she uses to slurp some very colorful stuff at the lab. She offered it to me once but the bright pink color of it was enough for me to decline.

"We do have coffee machines," I tell her "but if you want the real good stuff, you have to leave the office."

"Hm." She looks at me, lips pinched, eyes narrowed, as if there was something foul about this offer.

"I _want_ you, Abs."

Oh man. Oh damn. That's not what I had wanted to say. I mean, in some way it is exactly what I wanted to say, it simply should have been, "I want _you _to be part of my team, Abby!"

Her eyes grow wide; just a little, then she smirks. She does not really try to hide her amusement but the next moment she changes the subject and I almost forget my little slip of the tongue.

When we leave the restaurant, I open the door for her. She walks by, then stops and turns around. Looking me in the eye, she says: "You don't _want_ me, Gibbs. You know, 'want' as in want someone the way you want one when we want what the two of us don't want..." When Abby starts babbling, she doesn't mince matters.

I stare at her. I stare at her the way I use to stare at suspects.

It doesn't work. Quite the contrary: It is me who starts to feel uncomfortable. I pinch my lips, try to smirk, and right in time before I fail, I clear my throat.

"No. No we don't," I say and gently shove her out the door.

_**-x-**_

I do not recall Abby having had too many drinks, but in the fresh air it becomes clear that she is a bit tipsy. She tells me she is not used to this 'bourbon-liquor'.

"Then why did you have one?" I wonder.

"Because you did."

Hm. I am not discussing this.

My initial thought is to call a cab for her but my mind suddenly is flooded by images of when our paths first crossed at that park. I know she is grown up, a big girl or whatever she would tell me if she knew what I was thinking but I can't help it.

So I end up offering her to stay with me at my hotel.

Since the official part of the evening is over, we have another drink or two at the hotel bar before eventually heading upstairs.

* * *

><p><em>Tbc<em>

_Okay, so what do you think is going to happen next? Something unexpected, that much I could promise ... *grins mischievously*  
><em>


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Sorry, this is going to be a rather short chapter. I messed about with the previous ones and this actually should have been part of chapter 4. I could have added some more, but I want this chapter to end where it does. _

_I promised something unexpected and Abby and Gibbs ending up in bed together wouldn't be **that** unexpected, would it? ***Grins* **_

_However, did you expect **this**?_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 5<span>**

I would have paid for a room for her to stay at, but none are available. Babbling, Abby takes off her boots, her skirt and when she starts fumbling about underneath her shirt, I manage to take my eyes off of her and head for the bathroom.

When I come back, she has already fallen asleep. Even though the room has a king-size bed, I sleep in the armchair and leave the bed to Abby.

_**-xxx-**_

The next morning I am up early and by the time I get out of the bathroom, Abby has woken and is up as well. Sitting up in bed, she rubs her eyes and stretches. Her hair is tousled and she looks a little bit as if she has a hangover. After yawning and stretching again, she looks at me questioningly.

"What?" I ask.

"We ... we didn't, huh?" she asks and when I look a bit confused, she motions to the unused side of the bed.

"No," I chuckle. "We didn't," I confirm, shaking my head and smirking.

She sighs heavily.

"What a pity," she says, sounding almost disappointed, and I realize she talks about more than just _sleeping_ in the same bed.

For a second I wonder if she really means it or if she is just kidding. Giggling, she climbs over the untouched side of the bed, thoroughly crumbling it in the process. When she passes me by on her way to the bathroom, she stops briefly, turns back to get her skirt and bra, which she had taken off for the night, and with a broad grin she resumes her way to the shower.

As I am changing into a fresh shirt, there is a knock on the door.

"Yeah?" Not wondering any further who this might be - room service maybe, although it is probably too early for that - I open the door to let whoever it is come in.

When the door opens, the person I least expect is standing right in front of me.

I probably forgot to mention that before I went to Russia, I had gotten married. She came to stay with me when I went on a mission at Moscow and our relationship went from good, to okay, to _we-better-not-look-for-a-place-we-can-live-together-when-we-return-to-DC_. Something had gone wrong - _again_ - and I still cannot handle it. It got even worse since we came back and I take every chance I can to get out of town. Even though we do not live together any more, she calls what seems to me like a hundred times a day. I do not answer the phone any more, but it doesn't keep her from 'incidentally running into me' just around the next corner.

So going to New York for a couple of days had seemed like a good idea, but apparently she can find me wherever I am.

Now what on earth is she doing in New York?

"Stephanie," I can't hide my astonishment.

It seems like New York is just around the corner of D.C.

"Jethro, your Director told me you are in New York and..." I don't want to know how Stephanie managed to prize this information out of him. Then she realizes that I am trapped in this room. Nowhere to slip away through the back-door. "Why don't you let me talk to you?"

_Talk._ Great! _Talking_ usually means, she talks about my inability to listen and to respond to her needs and feelings and about how cold I am.

I take a deep breath, struggling for whatever I want or don't want to say, when suddenly the bathroom door opens and Abby walks out; fully dressed, with her hair twisted in a towel...

* * *

><p><em>Tbc...<em>


End file.
